Wish You Were Here
by SuperSonic21
Summary: "He recognised this bad handwriting – although, now, it was much better. Crushed until it was tiny to fit on the card, and still a little shaky, but . . . He blinked and shook his head, stepping back. Cas had sent him mail. Cas was thinking about him." Sam receives a postcard. Sastiel angst, 2.7k. Post - 9x04.


_**AN:**_ I have a biochemistry mid-term to revise for but instead I've written this for you all :)

ANGST ABOUND

* * *

"Good morning, Sam,"

Sam smiled before he even opened his eyes. Brushing the back of his hand against his brow, he gradually let his eyelids lift, so as to grow accustomed to the light. It was spring, and a bright, airy morning: he could see that, even with the minimal light coming in through the window in the ceiling.

His eyes immediately sought Castiel. There he was – blue-eyed and fresh as a daisy, like always. Groggily, Sam moved his hand from his face to Cas', pulling him gently down from where he was leaning on his elbow for a soft, sweet kiss.

This was his favourite kind of morning. When Castiel was able to stay all night; he didn't have to go off and deal with some heavenly plot, or some demonic problem that apparently couldn't wait until morning. Sam loved to wake up to a bed warmed by Cas' presence, more than anything.

"Morning," Sam slurred, still not quite awake. Cas laughed softly at his human's sleepy behaviour. "What – what are we doing today?" Sam asked blearily, rolling over to face Cas completely, who leaned back to prop himself up on his elbow again. There was a better view from above.

"Absolutely nothing. Aside from some reading," Cas added, with a knowing smile. There were still maybe a few hundred books that Sam hadn't read, but he was determined to do so.  
"Perfect," Sam replied with a smile, his eyes fluttering shut.  
"Don't go back to sleep," Cas warned him gently.  
"Why not?" Sam asked, not opening his eyes.  
"Because I won't be here when you wake,"

* * *

Sam frowned, screwing his eyes up.  
"Wait – Cas, what?" He asked, opening his eyes.

But Cas was gone, just like he said. The room was dark, and the bed was cold. It was autumn, and Sam was alone.

He sat up, looking around, his face wrenched in disappointment. It was almost every night that he dreamt of being with Cas; when he didn't, he dreamt of other angels finding Cas and destroying him, all while Sam sat useless and safe inside the bunker. It was beginning to drive him crazy.

He hadn't heard anything from Cas for almost three months now – far, far too long. Dean told him that he had been in contact to say that he was alive – but Sam had received no correspondence. And yet, he still couldn't stop thinking about him.

But then, why should Cas be thinking about _him_? He was just one man – just one human. Common, unremarkable: now that Cas was human, he could have anyone, without fear of discovery. He would be better off with someone else, Sam realised. He'd be better off with someone who could be with him one hundred percent of the time if he needed it; a partner who could be there for him, instead of hidden from him, in case he brought down the host of heaven on that partner.

And that wasn't Sam. He was stupid to think it was.

Glancing at the clock, Sam saw that it was around six-fifteen. He sighed, and considered going back to sleep, before realising that he was completely wide-awake now.

He showered quickly, trying not to think about his realisations about he and Castiel's incompatibility. Once he was ready, he headed to the kitchen, ready to grab some breakfast – but when he got there, and looked inside the fridge (kept well-stocked by Dean), he couldn't find anything at all that he felt he wanted to eat. So, he grabbed a glass of juice, and headed for the library.

_Absolutely nothing. Aside from some reading_ . . . What good was reading, anyway, when it couldn't help get Cas back? Staring at the first book he pulled down – _Werewolf Morphology Throughout History_ – he felt none of his usual fervour. Not yesterday, he'd felt better than ever, but now . . . He listlessly dumped the new book down on the table, and stared at it for a while.

He was still staring when he heard the familiar chirrup of the mailbox: of course, there wasn't one in this place, but there _was_ a sensor in their remote PO box at the local post office that told them when they'd received mail. They sometimes got letters from Garth, or Charlie; sometimes from other hunters. It was safe: seeing as the mailbox was far removed from the bunker, it was okay to tell people its address without fearing the discovery of their home.

Dean usually got the mail: Sam was usually deep into his research by the time his brother got up, and Dean always appreciated the drive. But today . . . Sam, for the first time in a long time, didn't want to research; he just wanted to drive, and forget about that beautiful, horrible dream he'd had. So he snatched up the keys to the Impala, scribbled a quick note to Dean which he attached to the coffee-maker, and headed for the garage.

When he rounded the corner and opened the door to the place where they stored the Men of Letters' various vehicles, he actually smiled: there it was. _Home_.

He made quick work of opening the garage door, revealing the lamp-lit underground tunnel to the outside world. Gently brushing his fingers along the hood of the car as he made his way to the driver's side door, Sam smiled sadly: the car was old, now. And she didn't get half the mileage she used to. But she was still fully functional, and she was always there for them when they needed it. She was always there for Sam – and he couldn't thank her enough. He thought as much, as he caught a glimpse of the army man stuffed in the ashtray of the back seat.

He shook his head as he climbed in – he realised he'd started to refer to the Impala as a 'she'. But he struggled to think of a more ever-present piece of his life than the Impala: when Dean had gone to Hell, she was all that remained of him. And when he'd gone to purgatory, well . . . She'd been all he'd had left, truthfully.

He gunned the engine, driving out of the garage and up the slope out of the ground, wondering with a small smile if this was what Bruce Wayne felt like in his Batmobile. He knew it had been a massive wish-fulfilment for Dean to be able to emerge from his very-own underground batcave. And, if he was honest, he kinda liked it too.

As he drove, he witnessed the sunrise. He loved being an early riser sometimes; it was worth missing those extra few minutes of sleep late in the year, to witness the pinks and reds that swept across the sky like the random swishes of some celestial being's paintbrush. Yes – it was good to wake up early.

But, as he looked to the empty passenger seat, his smile faltered.

Waking up early was good. But it was better to have someone to share it with.

* * *

Pulling up in front of the post office, Sam pulled out the copy of the key Dean had made him, in case he ever needed to use the PO Box on his own. In case they should ever be separated, without phones.

He got out, and slammed the door shut: it was quiet this morning. But, then again, there we no early-morning commuters yet, and not many people got up this early for fun – aside from the guy who ran the post office, thankfully.

He pushed the door open, almost hitting his head on the small bell above the door which rang at him cheerfully, alerting the store owner to his presence. The man looked up from a newspaper, raising one eyebrow. Sam smiled at the older man, whose face was cautious, yet not entirely unfriendly.

"Ain't seen you in here," He observed.  
"I'm here to pick up some mail," Sam told him. "It's a shared box. I share it with my brother, Dean,"  
"Dean?" The old man asked, surprised. "You two don't look a lot alike,"  
"No," Sam replied vaguely, wondering when Dean became such a local that the post office guy knew who he was.  
"You got your key?" The man asked, peering over the counter.  
"Uh – yes," Sam held the offending item up.  
"Then go right on ahead, Sam," The man instructed him, pointing to a door through which Sam could see walls and walls of PO boxes. He frowned at the man's use of his name, but figured that Dean must have chatted with the old man about him, at one point.

The owner buzzed him through the door – _it was good to know they had at least a little security in this place _– and he spent a minute or two searching for box 122. When he found it, he unlocked it, and pulled out all the mail.

There wasn't much: a hacked gold card for Dean . . . Dean's fortnightly copy of Busty Asian Beauties (which Sam tried to handle as little as possible) . . . And a postcard. The picture on it was clichéd: a sunrise, casting its golden, pink and red rays across the sea, colouring the shining waves.

Sam frowned – was Garth sending them postcards from hunts now? To be honest, he wasn't shocked, but-

_Dear Sam_,

_Sorry I haven't been in contact much. I've been busy with work, at the gas station. It's a good job – a little fatiguing, but I never tire of watching humanity go by. One day I might even get to see the Impala pull up on the forecourt, so it's definitely a fair trade. Plus, I am given financial reparations.  
Being human is hard. I don't need to reiterate – I've told you many times before. But, while this job is satisfying in that I enjoy cleaning, and helping your kind . . . I find that, even when money is scarce, and my manager gives me the less desirable jobs to complete, the hardest part about my current life is the distance from you.  
While I know I cannot be with you, and that thinking about you is detrimental to both my mood and my will to stay where I am – safe, far away from where my presence may cause harm – I cannot seem to get my mind to cooperate with me. When I daydream, it's always about you. I wanted you to know that, even if you have moved on from me by now.  
That's all I have space for – though I feel I've told you most of the important things. I miss you, Sam Winchester.  
Yearning to see you soon,  
Castiel_

Sam realised he'd stopped breathing. He recognised this bad handwriting – although, now, it was much better. Crushed until it was tiny to fit on the card, and still a little shaky, but . . .

He blinked and shook his head, stepping back.

_Cas had sent him mail. Cas was thinking about him_.

"Morning," Sam called down from the balcony, as he slammed the bunker door shut with an almighty _thunk_. Dean's gaze shot up: yeah, he'd read Sam's note, and yeah, he trusted Sam, but . . . What if one of these days it wasn't _Sam _who was taking off? What if Zeke decided to take him for a joyride?

"Yeah, if you can call it that," Dean grumbled, sipping his coffee. He was still dressed in his pyjamas and the robe he loved to wear well into the afternoons sometimes, Sam noted with amusement.  
"Pretty sure 8 o'clock counts as morning, Dean," Sam replied in a cheerful voice. Dammit, it was just _unholy _to be this happy this early . . . Huh.

"What?" Sam asked, frowning slightly, and setting down a brown bag of what smelled like breakfast food. He also set down a bunch of mail . . . _Oh no_. Dean's face paled, as Sam continued to wait for his response.  
"Was gonna ask you the same thing," Dean retorted, staring down at the mail. Sam followed his line of vision.  
"Oh – uh, I decided to give you the day off getting the mail. Even got your copy of, uh . . ." He eyed the offending magazine, before shaking his head and continuing: "Anyway. Figured I'd take the Impala out for a spin," Sam explained, holding the car keys up. "It's been a while,"

Dean snatched the keys with a scowl, shoving them in the pocket of his robe for safe-keeping. This only made Sam more amused.

"What's got you so cheery?" Dean asked irritably. Sam brushed it off as his brother's regular morning mood.  
"I got a postcard. From Cas," He answered with a grin, pulling said postcard from the pile of mail, and handling it with extreme care, as if it might disappear.  
". . . Oh," Dean replied quietly. ". . . Anything good?" He ventured.  
"You know – just, talking about being human, and stuff. And how he, uh . . . How he misses me," Sam scratched the back of his head, looking down and blushing. He looked like a damn schoolgirl.

"Oh – no. No, not touching that one," Dean refused, shaking his head profusely, and backing away towards the kitchen with his now-empty coffee mug.

When he was out of Sam's sight, he approached the kitchen counter, and set some more coffee to brew, thinking about how damn close that had been.

He couldn't believe he'd been so sloppy – he shouldn't have given Sam the key to the damn mailbox; he shouldn't have let him sneak out and get the mail. He shouldn't have let him get that postcard.

He hoped Cas would have stopped sending them by now: Sam hadn't replied to a single one (not that he'd had the chance). But maybe he figured Sam was just busy.

Dean hated – _absolutely, completely hated _– hiding all those damn things from Sam, but . . . Just, the way he'd reacted to that new one – it was clear all he wanted to do was to run off and see Cas. It just made his little brother want to see the former-angel more – and that was something that couldn't happen, for Sam's own sake. He still felt like crap for having a draw of intercepted personal messages from Cas to Sam hidden away in his bedroom, though.

It was a damn miracle that Cas hadn't said anything in this new postcard that gave away the fact it wasn't the first one. And, speaking of miracles . . . Leaning on the counter, squeezing his eyes shut, Dean came to a soul-destroying realisation. As he thought of happy, sickeningly love-struck Sammy clutching that postcard, he realised he'd have to get Zeke to erase the memory of Sam finding said postcard. Otherwise, Sam would want to write back, and they'd start corresponding, and they'd want to see each other, and then . . . Well, then Zeke would leave. And Sam would die.

So, Ezekiel would have to erase this memory.

The sound of whistling drifted down the hall, and Dean could have laughed at how screwed up this whole situation was. He hated himself, as he heard Sam honest-to-God whistling Ode To fucking Joy. Sammy was happy – not listless, or demotivated, or lovesick – and Dean would have to put an end to it.

But as he poured his fifth coffee of the morning, Dean listened to the whistling drift away as Sam moved further from him, and decided that, actually, erasing this memory could wait one day.

Sam was happy. And when he was happy, Dean didn't have to worry; Dean was happy, too. Sipping his punishingly-hot coffee, Dean thought to himself that while he didn't deserve to be happy with all the secrets he was keeping from Sammy, he could at least enjoy it while it lasted.

Just this once.

* * *

I fixed my review alerts and stuff, turns out they were going into my spam folder all of a sudden. Duh! Thanks for all your reviews, and sorry I haven't replied to any (I didn't see I had any until just now!) x


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